


Emrys and Pendragon: Witch Hunters

by Val_Creative



Series: Warlock & His Dollophead [7]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Blood, Bottom Merlin, Crossover, Fisting, M/M, Romantic Friendship, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:25:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To possess the heart of a Grand White—Warlock—is invaluable. A heart sought to be feared. And to be protected. But not a heart to be loved. In any case, Merlin’s heart is the key to all things in creation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emrys and Pendragon: Witch Hunters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hannijar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannijar/gifts).



> (A very special thank you to my friends on Skype who encouraged this on, even when I was whining, and The Merlin Family as well as The Warlock and His King Network on Tumblr for being a wonderfully excitable bunch ❤ ❤ ❤ )
> 
> BBC Merlin/Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters fusion. [Companion art](http://hannijar.tumblr.com/post/80950199368/sketchy-sketch-of-witch-hunters-merlin-and-arthur) by [Hanni](http://hannijar.tumblr.com). Give her a big thank you for being an amazing human being, and being the reason it exists. 
> 
>  
> 
> Day #7: "dressed/naked (half dressed)"

*

 

The situation is perhaps more catastrophic than he first assumed.

Merlin's chest hits into the edge of a wooden block, knocking a yelp out of him. He had been dragged to the top of the leveled platform, right in bloody mid-day, encouraged on by the shrieking voices of the masses.

He grunts, shaking his head wildly out of the fumbling grip of a stranger only before it returns stronger, ripping at his hair, throbbing his scalp.

The town sheriff kneeling above him bellows on about _heathens!_ and _sorcery at work here!_ and a whole host of driveling nonsense that half-tempts Merlin to conjuring a dagger, not to attack the townsfolk—but for jabbing his cerebellum, because it's the same _pointless_ mania that has gotten countless innocents hurt before him.

And, honestly? Merlin would not like that to be the last thing he hears.

They bent him over, Merlin's chin thumping over gore-stained wood. Great—just _great_. No trial. Straight to the chopping block already.

Lucky for his precious cognitive functions, a bolt flies out, embedding into the shoulder of one of the sheriff's men and pitching him off his feet. The axe he had been raising tumbles back into the crowd, eliciting more shrieks and terrified rushing to avoid its freshly sharpened blade.

Arthur comes strolling up the platform like a damn hero, teeth handsome and smile a touch wicked. A fully-formed image of arrogance and leisure.

With his hand not holding Merlin's crossbow, he fires off his hand-held machine gun, popping off a round or a couple into the sky. The crowd falls silent, eyeing him with apprehension and fascination.

"Unhand him," Arthur declares, smile thinning. He points it to the now enraged sheriff.

Before Merlin can warn his stupid, _braggart_ ass, Arthur detects the creaking on the platform behind him, whipping the butt of his gun into the face of another man, cracking nasal bone and spraying a film of red into the air. Merlin winces as the man starts crying, gargling.

Arthur wipes his own nose with the back of his glove, as if dealing with a rather annoying itch.

"I won't ask again," he says, a little more stern.

Merlin's arms return to him, with a sudden, hard forward shove that rattles his jaw. He lets out a startled, open-mouthed noise as Arthur's fingers wretch up his collar, pulling him back onto his feet.

"Good people of Balor!" Arthur shouts. "My name is Pendragon, and this man here with me is my servant Emrys." He claps Merlin's arm for good measure, rocking the other man off his heels. Merlin resists shooting him a withering glare. "A man you were prepared to behead under false suspicions. If you put aside these quarrels, we would like to help you."

"Don't need the likes of _you_!" comes a snarl from below.

"We believe you do," Arthur says, not batting an eye. "Members of your families have been spirited away into your forest, never heard from again." A chorus of agreement murmurs, yet the faces of the townsfolk remain unfriendly. "This evil can be contained and it can be defeated."

"Yur them Witch Hunters from Essetir, ain't ya?"

A daunting shudder launches up Merlin's spine. _Witch Hunters_.

What a revolting and eerily ironic title. Hunting your own kind. There was some circle of hell waiting for him, but Merlin isn't sure for what crime.

"Emrys and I have been hunting those who practice the dark arts from all corners of Albion. You will find none more proficient."

"You and your _servant_ have been causing trouble everywhere you go," the sheriff calls out, his complexion purpling. Hot spittle flying from his lips. He slashes a finger to Arthur who had lowered his gun, clicking on the safety. "I want _you_ out of my town by nightfall, or you will suffer dire consequences."

His beady, malice-glittering eyes focus on Merlin.

"It's too late for the boy," he mumbles. The tip of the sheriff's finger landing on him. "He must be condemned. If not beheaded, then by the fire… "

Arthur's eyes narrow at the unabashed amount of glee.

"Under what circumstances is he guilty?" he asks.

" _I know a sorcerer when I SEE one, you dull-eyed bastard_!"

At the insult, Merlin watches the tension snap in Arthur's neck, veins bulging. "Stop," he whispers, slapping a palm over Arthur's jerkin. Merlin's hand keeps to his partner's abdomen, his diaphragm heaving.

Two of the sheriff's men lug away the unconscious man and the other still crying, nose bleeding profusely into his cupped hands.

"What evidence can you present that he is _NOT_ guilty?"

"No witch can hide their true nature, and those who can have been long since dead," Arthur explains, taking Merlin and facing him to the townsfolk. He taps under Merlin's chin gently, signaling his chin to lift.

Merlin forces down a rising smirk. He tries schooling his expression impassive, even in the wake of so many hostile, _frightened_ people.

Arthur flashes a row of Merlin's gums to the crowd of onlookers, peeling off Merlin's woolen gloves and showing off his pink, scrubbed fingernails. "Their eyes burn yellow, always," Arthur says in warning, examining Merlin's profile, his clear blue eyes. "The power of the magic inside them is too unstable for a concealment enchantment. They _can't_ hide it."

"A grand white witch can," the sheriff counters, beginning to look gleeful again at the very realistic prospect of burning Merlin alive on a straw pile.

"Those exposed as a _Grand White Witch_ can. That is true." Arthur replies musingly, stroking fingers over a tanned cheek. "If one were among us… but you would need further proof…"

Merlin mentally groans. Oh hell, what—?

His partner throws up an arm, clasping onto a long, braided chain of silver with a transparent crystal dangling from it.

"This is a necklace from the Castle of Fyrien—one of the only true relics left of ancient witch-hunting!" Arthur roars. No twitch of lying in the absolute conviction of his voice. Merlin has to give him credit—it's a _decent_ lie. "It was forged in the black mountains of… Isgaard. And I can assure you, it burns hot in the presence of a Grand White Witch!"

Merlin finds himself thrust in the face with the crystal, having it bang to his forehead. He blinks at nothing particularly, mildly annoyed.

When no glowing occurs, and when Merlin's eyes do not flicker to any strange formidable color, the town's spectators erupt to cheering.

 

*

 

The local inn welcomes them. Getting past the initial ' _you die for existing_ ' phase, Merlin thought it was a cozy place to live. If he had to settle down.

Or maybe he was just fond of the bushels of wildflowers outside the inn.

Arthur pours himself a jug of mead, sighing. He glances at the dusty map unrolled on the tabletop and then glances at Merlin, hand resting on the pommel of his sword absently before undoing his belt. Out of all their weapons to be used in defense, in hunting, Arthur's sword was the favorite. For Arthur, anyway. Guns were used for emergencies.

Such as earlier. _Ugh,_ damn.

Merlin takes the sword and belt from him, placing it on the crudely-made table of their inn room.

"I'm starting to believe you do this on purpose," Arthur says, muttering.

Merlin's face twists into a look of contempt.

"I do _not_ ," he argues, frowning when Arthur's mouth peaks to a smirk. Better to laugh at a near-death experience than wallow, he supposes. But still. "This time was not my fault. I was out patrolling the bazaar alone, minding my _own_ business as usual—"

"And someone just _happened_ to see you perform magic, was it?"

There isn't outrage in how Arthur states it. If anything—exasperation. This isn't the first time Merlin had been met with accusations from locals.

"No, someone couldn't take 'no' for an answer," Merlin says.

Arthur curls a lip at him, at Merlin's overly furious tone.

"What on earth does that mean?"

Merlin makes a quiet, dismissive tone.

"… Nothing," he lies.

He knows he's not a good liar. Not like Arthur.

And unfortunately, Arthur knows him too well by now. How Merlin's exhales hitch, how going _quiet_ wasn't a very good sign concerning him.

"What happened?"

Arthur's chair scrapes the grubby floor. His boots echoing against hard stone. Merlin's wool, dark blue hood falls back as Arthur grabs his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. "Merlin, _what_ happened?" he insists, searching his expression.

The switch from their public identities—Emrys, the fool servant boy, to _Merlin—_ catches Merlin rapt and vulnerable. Knots his stomach, and releases.

A tailor apprentice, a nasty and weaselly lad going by Cedric, had purposely followed Merlin down three streets. He finally attempted to chase him to a more secluded region and threatened to have Merlin 'good and ready for him'. Not appreciating the lecherous intent, Merlin went for his crossbow strapped on him, and was struck across the back of the head with a rock. One of Cedric's friends discarded it, laughing and kicking away Merlin's crossbow from the woozy man's reach.

Which then led to Merlin being dragged through the street that mid-day.

The bruise likely plastered underneath dark curls had stopped aching.

"I'm alright, I swear it," Merlin says, meaning to reassure him, to rid the glint of worry. He holds onto Arthur's hands. "Which is more than I can say for the clod who couldn't keep his dirty mitts to himself."

There's _emotion_ Merlin can't believe he sees in Arthur's features, when he stares at Merlin like he's absolute, like Merlin is _wonders_ never known outside this existence and revered.

Arthur's knuckle traces a phantom line down Merlin's cheek.

"Should have known better…"

"You shot him with the bolt," Merlin informs him, softly.

" _Good_ ," Arthur says between a murmur and a low, cranky grumble. He nuzzles against Merlin's receiving lips, pressing slow and warm kisses to contours. The sort of kissing that gets Merlin's limbs watery, gets his heart soaring.

He touches Arthur's wrist, sweeping over the dark blond hairs. Merlin tugs playfully at the crystal necklace on Arthur's neck.

"Isn't that the healing amulet I gave you?" he asks, pleased.

Arthur ignores the comment, letting Merlin go and returning to the scraps of inked maps overlapping each other. He presses a finger to a blot.

"Now that the mayor has regained his bloody wits, he's been gracious enough to open the vaults of historical records. Similar disappearances nearly ten years apart from each other, going on for six centuries."

Arthur's fingertip hovers over _Forest of Balor_ , and Merlin doesn't like how much ink had been used to scribble out a caricature of it.

"We have been ferreting out this beast for leagues," he says, grimly. Arthur's broad shoulders flexing as he leans down, palms flattening to the elm table. "We've lost track for a few of the passing years, but we're _this_ close now."

"And the missing townsfolk?" Merlin reminds him, deliberately. "We're going to return them to their families as well, aren't we… ?"

The dim light off a taperstick casts shadows to Arthur's face.

" _If_ we can, Merlin."

 

*

 

Arthur is a great deal of things, but he is not without compassion.

The human heart naturally bears flaws, but Arthur came to him as pure, thundering radiance. He lays a hand upon Merlin, to his elbow at the tavern, to his hip and his brow in private—and there are moments where Merlin's senses reel themselves dumbfounded and inept, and _wanting_ him.

There is no _evil_ in this man. Not a flyspeck.

And Merlin can not be anything else but a force of good. He can not stray from the path of light, lest his own heart blacken to its core.

The flaws of magic without a _human_ heart are simple to understand, really—it easily corrupted itself. But that… that is the _problem_.

Bright blue sparks hover out from Merlin's pale fingers, his magic warping and shaping into visible energy. His hands blue orbs.

To possess the heart of a Grand White— _Warlock_ —is invaluable.

A heart sought to be feared. And to be protected.

But not a heart to be loved.

In any case, Merlin's heart is the _key_ to all things in creation.

 

*

 

A handful of people turn up to question Arthur, when both witch hunters stop by for gathering information. To Merlin's frustration, they end up giving more than receiving it.

They ask about the more dangerous and fearless adventures, about killing witches and the proper methods, and plainly admiring Arthur.

Others sneer distrustful at him, and sneer at Merlin hidden by his long hood.

"I wouldn't underestimate my companion." Arthur flashes Merlin a hearty grin, and one of the nearby women giggles behind her dainty hand. "Emrys has a keen eye and tracking abilities unparalleled to any man I've ever encountered. He's managed to lead Nemeth's entire army through the tunnels of Andor without a single death by Wildddeoren."

The tavern-keeper's wife listening in on the conversation scoffs.

"That's not possible," she says, protesting, rubbing a dirtied rag on the counter.

Several men hoot and one even boldly slaps Merlin's shoulder, but he endures it for the sake of appearances. Play the fool, _Emrys_.

"Tell that to Nemeth," Arthur quips, earning him an uproar of drunken laughter.

A knee presses softly to Merlin's thigh under the table, the weight comforting and familiar. Merlin's hood shields his bemusement.

"I trust this man with my life, and I vow it to him," Arthur says, not bothering to hide his pride. And Merlin's heart _burns_ hot.

 

*

 

They discover a ragged, little girl with little yellow-glow eyes.

Arthur spots her first, moving instinctively to part the woodland shrubbery and advance, and Merlin growls out a " _no!_ " with all of his teeth baring. Arthur's eyes glare back, but he removes his hand from his sword, halting.

She merrily hums a tune, having enchanted baby salmon from the river, making them hover safely in small, floating water globes.

Merlin taps a finger to his lips in a ' _shush_ ' motion when the little girl sees him approaching the glade, clapping her hands over her mouth gasping, eyes filling with tears.

He drops his pistol, offering her a kind smile. "What's your name, love?"

"Freya," she whispers, meekly.

Merlin crouches down, brushing a stray, warm tear from her face. "Freya, no harm will come to you while I'm here. You have my word."

"… You're the Witch Hunter." Her shoulders tremble. " _Please_ don't kill me!" she sobs out, wrapping her bare, chubby arms to Merlin's waist and hugging him fiercely. "I won't do it again! I _won't_! I'll be good!"

He cups the back of her head, leather-clad fingers resting in wavy tangles of dark hair. Merlin feels her sobbing harder, and bites his lip.

"No harm will come to you," he repeats, voice breaking.

" _The same cannot be promise for you_."

The little girl in Merlin's arms morphs away, features elongating and scaling, her body growing monstrously large and belly soft with leopard fur. He hears Arthur screaming his name, a painful chill running up him. What feels like hot blood leaks and spurts out, out from Merlin, as fangs sink into him, as a weak, high cry rips out of Merlin's throat.

His vision spins, whitens. The next thing he senses is Arthur over him, colorless as the lumpy porridge from this morning, breathing fast.

Arthur's hand weighs down on the crest of Merlin's head.

"No, you can't," he says frantically, gaping at the blue woolen material against Merlin's chest gleaming liquid-black. "No. Merlin, stay with me. Stay _with me_ , you idiot!"

"The… Questing Beast…"

Merlin's lips feel numb on the surface, cracked dry. He sounds far away, lightheaded and murmury, floating deep above clouds.

" _is_ …"

"It's real, Merlin." Arthur nods, his face grimacing and wet. His hand squelches the chest-wound, skin coating with Merlin's lifeblood.

It's _real_ … the reason they arrived in Balor… for Arthur's…

Merlin's eyes roll shut.

 

*

 

Long centuries before the Questing Beast had been hatched from its egg, craving destruction and a tender palate of flesh, before magical creatures had reason to flee…

… There had been a court sorcerer.

Beloved dearly by his king and his queen, trusted by the royal counsel, he watched over Odin's kingdom from sickness and invaders.

In celebration of this time of peace, King Odin wished to conceive sons—blood _heirs_ to his powerful lineage. But his queen could not bear him any.

King Odin then summoned his court sorcerer, demanding that _magic_ answer his whims, and to his greedy desires.

But the court sorcerer advised him against tampering with the balance of life and death. Driven by his selfish nature, King Odin threatened his very dear friend. And the court sorcerer had no other choice but to obey the commands of his lord and master, spending his nights poring over his books and casting a fertility spell.

The queen soon grew round with child, much to the delight of the kingdom. But the son Odin longed for was born from her… grey and dead.

As predicted, the balance of nature had not been met, rejecting the spell.

King Odin's grief for the unborn child, for the loss of his wife throwing herself mad from the castle's bell-tower wailing, manifested into savage rage for the one he viewed responsible.

News spread quickly of treason, whispers of _black magic_ and _devils_ and the court sorcerer's execution, and Merlin… vanished.

Like smoke trickling off embers.

 

*

 

"It's been luring townsfolk in the guise of a child," comes a familiar voice in his hearing. Merlin groans, lifting an arm and pulling himself from lying down. Bandages itching.

Arthur wrings out a damp cloth from a basin of water, having already seated on the cot.

"You should have let me handle it," he adds, icily.

The cloth aims purposely at Merlin's face, plastering wet to a cheek.

Instead of arguing with him, the Grand White Warlock chuckles humorlessly.

"Where's the fun in that?" Merlin stretches drowsily, rubbing at the old bandages. Not that old. There's a dark crust of blood on it. Crusty wound. That explains the itching. "How long was I asleep for?"

Arthur's face goes a sort of comically murderous.

"Your… HEART _stopped_!"

"Same difference," Merlin tells him. He never did understand how Arthur could manage to forget Merlin was an immortal creature of magic. He avoids the empty jug heaved at his head, as it bounced off the wall. " _Is_ that really necessary… ?…"

"I _lost_ —!" Arthur's expression draws to a crumbling. He grits his teeth.

Merlin examines him as Arthur gets up, turning his back to him and rubbing his hands over his face. The orphaned boy he first encountered in that forest outside Essetir's kingdom, who still carried the sword forged in a dragon's breath and _spared_ Merlin's own life—that boy never left.

"I'm not your family, Arthur," he says, calmly. "I'm not going anywhere."

In less than a handful of paces, Arthur's across the bedchamber, yanking Merlin whole-bodied towards him and crushing their lips together. Arthur's tongue licking and pushing in as Merlin's mouth yields to it. A growling noise escapes Arthur, vibrating against the surface of Merlin's lips.

"Your trousers are filthy," he says. "Take them off."

"Take off _yours_ ," Merlin retorts, grinning. His insolence sets off Arthur's lust and impatience further, teeth nipping down hard under Merlin's chin.

Merlin swallows a moan, fingers scrambling to undo the bandages he doesn't need. The flesh on his chest milky and smooth, unmarred by earlier wounds. While he's half dressed, Arthur's straddling him, clad in his padded, black armour, jerkin and a crimson shirt. His thick, leather gloves trail over Merlin's nipples, feeling every inch of skin Arthur can see.

His trousers _are_ filthy, with brown, soft earth and with dried blood. Merlin unlaces them, letting Arthur tug them and his small-clothes off his legs.

Merlin's heart clenches _hot_ when Arthur pleads to have him, whispering against his ear, stroking Merlin's thigh absently.

"Yes, gods," he whispers back, summoning the vial from the mess of their belongings on the floor. Feeling _empty_ without Arthur.

"Do it, Arthur… "

"I'm here, love. Hush now," Arthur says, petting Merlin's cheek with the backs of his fingers. The dark stubble rasping softly to his glove.

Merlin watches him, confused, but then with his naked cock stiffening in interest. Arthur dribbles the oil over leather, rubbing slick fingers together. He arranges Merlin on his back, crooking his legs apart. Merlin nibbles at Arthur's bottom lip, hands deep in Arthur's hair.

He presses his mouth and presses hungry, breathy kisses to his companion's jaw, distracted as Arthur fingers his hole, opening him.

It's glorious how Merlin's rim pinkens, sloppy with oil, when Arthur works inside as careful as he can, thrusting short jabs. Arthur's own cock twitches in longing at the sight of leathered, dark fingers widening the pucker, stretching Merlin to seemingly impossible lengths.

Merlin's hips lift a moment, grinding into Arthur's hand. His eyes bleed away to a golden yellow, crawling to ecstasy.

"Fuck me, you arse," he demands, spearing in Arthur's third finger when Merlin rocks, moaning.

"I believe I _am_ fucking you," Arthur says, baiting him, his lips tilting up sly. He wants very much to press inside Merlin's heat, to savor the bare drag against his cock. To feel each tremor of muscle. Reduce the man in front of him to shivers and babbles.

And in a way, he still can do that, uncurling his gloved fingers and fitting in the littlest one. With enough oil, with enough heart-pounding pace, Merlin's body accepts Arthur's hand to the row of knuckles, but stops, fluttering.

"Keep breathing, Merlin; you can do this," Arthur encourages gently, touching over Merlin's chest sharply rising in. He's so pitifully thin. "I know you can. Just a little more now."

" _Hurts_ ," Merlin whines out, face scrunching.

Arthur's nerve wavers at the sound.

"Merlin?" he asks. "Tell me if it's too much."

After a pause, Merlin decides to thin his lips together, shaking his head. Arthur stares into watery, gold eyes, easing up to kiss his eyelids. Stupid, _beautiful_ idiot of a warlock. Merlin chuckles against Arthur's mouth, appearing more relaxed. "Keep going," he murmurs.

"You're insufferable," Arthur says, expression fond. He waits for Merlin grasping his arm, urging him. "Can't imagine why I bother with you."

"No one else is willing to let you fist their bum, are they?"

To Arthur's mortification, he blushes. To retaliate, Arthur bites down at the left dip of Merlin's side, right where his hip joined, and it _loosens_ Merlin.

Merlin's body takes him up to the wrist, muscles undulating, letting Arthur sink in deeper than his cock has ever gone. The _heat_ is incredible. Arthur swears he feels it right through the leather. He pulls at Merlin's cock, slowly tugging it back to firmness. The length of Arthur's hand nudges, brushing repeatedly to his prostate.

A noiseless cry jolts out of Merlin, his mouth opening, face blazing with a red colour.

"You're amazing, christ," Arthur says, edging on prattling, his trapped cock angry for release. But he can't, _can't_ focus on that, not while getting Merlin so full, not drowning in this inferno—in Merlin's body.

When Arthur's fingers shift, making to ball up a fist, Merlin comes hard on his back, arching and nearly screaming from the push-pain of raw sensation. His magic lashes out, crushing the thrown jug on the floorboards like it had been a sheet of parchment, and rattling the cot beneath them.

Merlin's seed pumps onto his belly, glossing it in white streaks. He goes limp, trembling periodically through the waves of his orgasm, enough where Arthur finds he can slip his hand free. If done carefully. He doesn't want to chance hurting him.

Arthur strips off that leather glove, fumbling with both hands for his belt.

He surges forward, grabbing onto Merlin's hips to steady him, smearing the glans to Merlin's hole. Arthur ruts against it, tempted to push in a bit—just to feel the wonderful snag of a tight ring of muscle. He thinks better of it, for Merlin's sake, gasping when Arthur spends himself between his pale thighs.

There's barely time to recover when Merlin's arm wrap around him, pressing their bodies down, legs entwining.

The warlock's head nestling to the curve of Arthur's throat smelling of their shared heat and of sex. As if Merlin were in danger of losing him the moment they were apart.

It hits a little close to home—Arthur's bare hand raking to grip on.

 

*

 

Merlin wakes to light pinching and caressing on one of his buttocks. He slaps the hand away, cranky. "M'fucking sore, you arse."

" _Love you too_ ," Arthur sighs resigned, embracing Merlin's skinny back.

 

*

 

Despite the unconfirmed navigation of the numerous, ancient maps, they discover the lair far, far beneath everything in dank caverns.

As well as five grown men and six woman, lost, starving and _alive_.

Merlin grants Arthur the honour of wrenching Excalibur deep in the Questing Beast's breast.

He kills the magical creature as it was fast asleep in its nest of rotted human remains and yellowed, splintered bones.

The town of Balor showers them with coppers and hot meals and unending gratitude when Merlin and Arthur return from the menacing forest, with over two quarters of the missing family members in tow.

"I'm sorry, we need to be moving on," Arthur says, shaking the mayor's quivering hand. "Your offer to keep us is most appreciated, but…"

Merlin's eyes flicker yellow, as he raises a hand high, lighting the celebratory bonfires in the square, enjoying the sudden, astonished jaw drops.

Arthur snorts.

"I'm afraid you would tire of us quickly."

 

*

 


End file.
